


Fulfillment

by catawhumpus (ironmermaidens)



Series: Crown AU [5]
Category: Hermitcraft
Genre: Beating, Choking, Collars, Gen, Implied Conditioning, Implied dubcon, Master/Pet Dynamics, Whipping, hc crown au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27387973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmermaidens/pseuds/catawhumpus
Summary: The King is given a prophesy foretelling a betrayal by his Consort, and doles out appropriate punishment for his future transgressions against the Crown.
Series: Crown AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000731
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Fulfillment

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: this was actually the very first Crown AU fic I ever wrote. I think it shows, when read along side the rest of the stories in the series, that I didn't quite have a grasp on the tone I was looking for yet.

The King redresses himself in terse silence, hands pulling tight the buckles of his belts and armor with practiced ease, his movements jerking with seething frustration. This was hardly the first time his Oracle had delivered him unfavorable news, but second only to one, it was the first time it pertained to something so close to him, so personal. 

The King's hand wraps around his scabbard and drags it across the table, the blade rattling within until he'd pulled it to his side, the belt clasping to his hip in as short a time as the rest were done. Behind him his Oracle lay, whether depleted from their encounter or from the King's violent reaction to the prophesy he had delivered, it was unclear. No matter. The King would have a nurse sent to check on him. He has bigger matters to attend to. Matters of betrayal. 

He stalks from the room without a word to his Oracle, slams the door shut with a low growl that sends the mingling servants fleeing. He need not ask them where to find his target. He had limited freedom to roam this castle, after all, and so few places to hide. It was only a matter of time before the King found his Consort.

He needn't look far. The Consort is a creature of routine. There were only a handful of places he tended to linger when his presence wasn't required by his King or Queen. If not in the garden with the Courtesan, he might be found in the kitchens with the servants, stealing cheeky snacks from the cooks. If not in the kitchens, in his King and Queen's bedchamber or boudoir, though rarely was this so if one of his masters wasn't accompanying him. It is in none of these places he finds his Consort. 

He can hear his children's laughter as he stalks down the corridor, can hear his Consort's own alongside it, a breathy chortle so unbecoming of someone of his stature, his prestige. The King only heard him make such a sound when he was with the children. He loved the King's children, perhaps more than he loved his King. He can't help but sneer as he thinks of the prophesy, thinks of the Consort alone with his children, no doubt poisoning them with his traitorous thoughts. He picks up his pace, his sword and armor clinking loudly with each step. Whatever games the Consort is playing do not cease until the King crosses the threshold into his children's bedchambers. He's greeted with a smile from his Consort, and it only fuels the rage within his heart. 

The King lunges forward before his Consort can speak, grabs him by his collar and yanks him off balance, the startled screams and gasps of his children falling on deaf ears. His Consort yelps and falls against the King's armor, scrambling for some purchase against the smooth surface. The King steps away in disgust, his Consort falling to his knees, gasping and coughing against the tug at his collar, turning wide, watering eyes up at the King questioningly. 

He hears his children, too frightened by their father's rage to come any closer, begging him to release the Consort, but he cannot make out the words they use. He curls his lip back and hisses, _ "Traitor." _

_ "My King?"  _ The Consort gasps, eyes still wide with unwaning fear. He doesn't pull away from the King's grasp. He waits for his King to make his choice, offering no input of his own into his preferred course of action. Somehow it makes the King all the angrier. He curls his fingers into the band of the Consort's collar, feels rather than sees or hears him gasp as knuckles press against his throat. He turns and yanks his Consort after him, feels weight tugging at his arm as the Consort is once more pulled off balance, more desperate gasps following him as the Consort struggles to keep up and keep on his feet. 

The step of his boots, the clink of his armor, the whimpers of his Consort, all of them pound in the King's ears as he drags the traitor through his castle. Through the corridors and down the stairs the King takes him, shoving unwitting servants and soldiers out of his way as he goes, the Consort stumbling into his back and jostling him on occasion, choked apologies following every one, and every one of them containing unspoken questions that the Consort would find answered soon enough. Where were they going? What was happening? 

They reach the final dimly lit staircase leading into the bowels of the castle, and the Consort gasps again. "My King?"

The King does not respond as he tugs his Consort down to the dungeons. He can hear the Consort's fingers scrabbling against the stone walls as he tries to keep his footing, the King's grip on his collar bending him at an awkward angle that made it difficult to walk at all, let alone down the steep, narrow steps in this dark stairwell. The King feels a thrill at his Consort's struggle. It was only the beginning of what he would be receiving for his betrayal. They reach the bottom of the stairs, and the King throws his Consort to the floor before he can gain his footing and put himself on equal ground as his King. 

The Consort falls flat on his belly, his face and elbows slamming against the stone ground, letting out a high yelp as he curls on himself in pain. The King gives him no time to recover before burying his boot in his Consort's gut, another hoarse yelp escaping him as the wind is knocked from his lungs. The Consort curls in on himself around the King's boot, soft whimpers begging for mercy he didn't deserve. 

The King sneers and pulls his boot away, watches the Consort pull his knees up protectively into the vacated space. Pathetic. The King steps backwards towards the rack where his Queen kept his favorite tools, his eyes remaining on the shivering Consort that lay in the middle of the room. Slowly, the Consort pushes himself up on his elbows, limbs shaking under him as he does. 

"Stop," The King commands. His Consort freezes. "Stay down."

"M-My King...?" The Consort asks quietly, glancing towards the King. The King sneers in response, plucking a weapon from the tools on the rack. His Consort's eyes widen as he unfurls the whip he's selected, cracking it against the stone floor experimentally. The Consort jumps at the sound, turns his eyes back downcast, shoulders tense. 

"Take your shirt off, Consort," The King says. The hesitation he expects from his Consort is absent as shaking fingers find the hem of his tunic, pulling the fabric up and over his head until his back is bare, dropping it unceremoniously in front of himself. The King can see clearly just how tense his Consort's muscles are now, even in the dimness of the dungeon, can see them pulled taut over his ribs and spine. There might be nothing between the King and his Consort's ribs once he was through with him. He cracks the whip against the air once more, feels a sick pleasure at the sight of his Consort jumping. 

Once more he gives his Consort no time to relax before raising his arm, bringing the lash down sharp across the Consort's back. He arches with a pained shout, but remains where the King has ordered him to stay. The King cracks the whip against his back again, lets his lips curl into a cruel smile as another shout of pain escapes his Consort.

"My King, please—!" he gasps, confusion in his cracking voice. As if he didn't know of his own traitorous thoughts that he betrayed his King with. He brings the whip down across his Consort's back again, pulling another yelp from him, a shaking gasp that dies off into a pathetic sob. He can see the raised welts on his Consort's back already, an angry red against his pale skin. 

"My King..." the Consort protests weakly. "I'm a good boy..."

The King scowls and brings the lash down on his Consort's back more harshly this time, thrills at the choked sound the Consort makes in response, the desperate persistence that he holds himself up on his elbows for his King with. It's a display of loyalty and obedience that makes no difference to the King now. He cracks the whip, draws another scream from his Consort, another welt, and this time with it he draws blood. He gives his Consort another lash, and is rewarded with another scream, and another line of blood on his back.

"I'm a good boy!" his Consort sobs. "My King, I am a good boy..."

The King doesn't know who his Consort thinks he's fooling with such lies. He nearly sees red to be so obviously disrespected. Another three lashes, in such quick succession his Consort cannot make a sound before he's finished. He hears a weak sob, and a whispered, "I'm a good boy, my King..."

Another lash, another raw scream. The King waits to see if his Consort will try to feed him more lies, examining the blood that smears his back through the sobs wracking his shoulders. 

"Do you have anything to say to me?" The King prompts, cruelly expecting the weak,  _ I'm a good boy, Sir _ , that his Consort responds with. He cracks the whip against his Consort's back again, enjoys the broken sob he is rewarded with. 

The King loses track of how many more lashes he gives his Consort, how long it takes him to stop insisting that he is a good boy, his words replaced by silent sobs, his once unmarred back now hidden beneath a layer of blood and torn skin. His Consort finally collapses, lays flat on the ground shaking, though making no move to protect himself from his King or the whip. The King steps in a slow circle around his Consort's trembling form, every click of the King’s boot against the floor making him flinch and squeeze his eyes shut tighter. He stops by his Consort’s head, folds his hands behind his back, whip still in hand, as if he may yet need it. 

"Do you want my forgiveness, Consort?" the King asks.

"Yes, my King... Please... My apologies f-for my... my transgressions..." the Consort responds, stumbling over his words as if he were still unsure what he had done to earn this punishment. The King curls his lip.

"Then kiss my boot, Consort," the King demands. "Show me how much you desire my forgiveness."

He watches his Consort's eyes flutter open, watches him blink dully at the boots before him. He sucks in a deep, shaking breath before pulling himself forward across the stone floor, his face twisted in pain as the movement stretches the wounds on his back. He whimpers, drags himself forward again until he's close enough to push himself up on his elbow with the little strength he has remaining. His Consort draws in another breath. He leans forward. The King draws back his foot. 

The King's boot connects with his Consort's face, the force slamming his jaw shut and throwing him backwards onto the stone with renewed sobs. There's blood on his face, whether from his nose or his mouth, the King cannot discern. He doesn't much care. 

"Get yourself cleaned up, Consort," the King sneers. "And see to it you're back in my bedchamber before evening. It wouldn't do for you to be wandering the castle in your current state."

His Consort nods minutely, bloody face hidden behind his hands. "Y-Yes, my King..."

The King turns on his heels, and strides back to the rack on the wall, carefully replacing the whip before leaving his Consort there, bloody and sobbing on the dungeon floor.


End file.
